I can’t imagine Beth’s body getting all swollen, since she’s such a fitness freak. “Beth, I can’t wait to see you get fat,” I say. I puff out my cheeks like a blowfish. “You’re gonna get so huge, especially with your b—” I start to say butt and then stop myself.
It’s too late. Beth stares at me, her expression going from disbelief to shock. Then her chin quivers as if she’s about to cry.
And then she does cry.
I clap my hand over my mouth. Mike throws his napkin at me. “Do you ever think before you open your mouth, Blabby Abby? Oh, wait, don’t try to think. You’ll hurt yourself.”
Everyone is looking at me like I just murdered a kitten.
Our food arrives, but I don’t feel like eating. Why can’t I just be quiet, like Drew? Why do I always have to say every stupid thing that comes into my mind? “I’m sorry,” I say over and over. I bet Mom’s face will never light up for me the way it does for Mike. The expression she’s giving me is the same one she has when she gets gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe.
Dad shakes his head at me. “For Pete’s sake, Abby, you’re not supposed to mention weight to a pregnant woman. Or any woman.”
That’s the problem with unmentionables. I always mention them.
“It’s hurtful,” Mom says.
“Very hurtful,” echoes Grandma.
They’re ganging up on me.
Beth sniffs, wipes her tears away, and straightens her shoulders. She looks like her regular self again. “It’s okay. I realize children don’t always mean things the way they sound.” Children, she calls me.
“I didn’t mean it to be hurtful,” I say to Beth. “I just meant it’ll be fun to see you pregnant, like, different from your normal self.”
“Of course. It’s fine.” But it isn’t.
“Okay, then,” Mom says. “That’s all Abby meant. Everybody forget about it.” I know she’s trying to help me, but it’s obvious she’s mad. She’s cutting her chicken like she’s sawing a tree.
Grandma reaches across the table to pat Beth’s hand. “You know, honey, that’s part of Abby’s disease,” she whispers. “The ABHB. She can’t filter.”
“ADHD, Ma,” Mom says. “And it’s not a disease. You don’t have to whisper.”
Grandpa goes, “What’s the big deal? Pregnant women gain weight! This kid speaks her mind. She’s going places. You’ll all see.” He winks at me. I love you, Grandpa.
“Beth.” I don’t realize words are coming out of me until I hear my voice. “I only meant that when you get humongous…” Beth winces at humongous. “…you know, right before you give birth, your baby could be the size of a Thanksgiving turkey…” Drew is waving his hand for me to stop. I can’t. It’s like a motor that won’t turn off. “So your belly might look like…” I search for a word, search for a way out. “…like Dad’s.”
For a split second, nobody says anything. And then the tension snaps, like a twig. Dad laughs first, and everyone else follows. Even Beth manages a smile, especially when I rub Dad’s stomach like he’s a Buddha. After that, the grown-ups discuss which dead relative to name the baby after, and nobody cares that I hurt Beth’s feelings.
Except me. I care. When I go to the ladies’ room, Dad follows me and takes me aside. “I don’t mind you using my belly for a joke tonight, but you shouldn’t joke about it again, or anyone’s weight, okay?”
I bury my face in his chest. “I’m sorry.” He hugs me and kisses the top of my head. The thing about Dad is, he can be as loud and scary as an angry pit bull, but it passes quickly, and then he’s a big mush ball.
After dinner I scratch Grandpa’s back, and he slips me twenty bucks. He hugs me for a long time, as if he knows I need an extra-long hug today. Then he whispers in my ear, “You’re my favorite grandchild. Don’t tell the others.”
I see him slip some cash to Drew and whisper in his ear. After that, he leaves with Grandma to go home and watch Jeopardy! Mike and Beth go home too, because Mike wants to read a bedtime story to Beth’s stomach so the baby will know his voice, which is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, since I’m pretty sure the baby doesn’t have ears yet. Dad, Drew, Mom, and I stay to have dessert.
On the way out Mom explains that she is too young to be called Grandma, so instead she wants to be called Glamma, like Goldie Hawn, whoever that is. “Isn’t it wonderful?” she says to Dad as we go out through the glass door and onto the sidewalk. “First Drew’s bar mitzvah, now the baby.”
Dad puts his arm around her. “We have a lot to be thankful for.”
I’m not so sure. Because standing right in front of us, about to walk through the restaurant’s take-out door, is Mr. Finsecker.
I hate Finsecker with every molecule of every cell in my body. I hate him from the roots of my hair to my intestines. I hate him infinity.
He drops the bomb as soon as he sees us. He really is going to suspend me. Worse, he tells my parents he expects me to fail the final.
Finsecker suggests my parents come to school for a meeting, but Dad insists the meeting take place right here in front of Casa Lupita, because he has a right to know what’s going on with his daughter now, for Pete’s sake. And when Dad uses that scary tone and does that furious jaw-twitching thing, people do what he says.
So while Drew waits in the car, Finsecker gives my parents his version of me. Apparently, I’m a troublemaker who can’t string two sentences together, and I’m wasting my potential. I’m surprised he says I have potential. Teachers probably say that to ALL parents.
“Why didn’t you let us know this was going on?” Dad asks, towering over Mr. Finsecker. “Isn’t that your job?”
Finsecker seems to shrivel, but only for a second. “My job is to teach, Mr. Green. I have almost two hundred students. It would be impossible for me to contact the parents of every child who falls behind. It’s your responsibility as parents to stay informed. All grades are posted online.”
Mom never goes online to check my grades. “Why didn’t you tell us, Abby?” she asks.
Tears spill out of my eyes and roll down my cheeks. How can I explain that Finsecker’s class makes me feel like a passenger on the Titanic, doomed to sink, so why even try? How can I explain that I’m not like one of those Titanic passengers who looked for a lifeboat or asked a crew member for help, that I’m more like one of those musicians on the deck, the guys who kept smiling and playing violin and pretending everything was fine as the ship cracked in half?
How can I explain that if Mom and Dad had known how bad it was, they would have pulled me out of Grease and off the soccer team, my only reasons for going to school? Or that I can tell when a teacher hates me, so I give back as good as I get, and trying my best for a creep like Finsecker is the last thing I would ever, EVER do? How can I explain that it started when I fell behind in three or four assignments because, even though I did them, I couldn’t find them, then I felt lost in class, so cracking jokes was the only way to get through? How can I explain that I would rather have died than try to catch up and let people see how behind I was, and that redoing everything was frustrating and pointless since I’d already done it?
How can I even begin to explain?
“I—I—I don’t know why” is all I can manage.
Finsecker says something about summer school. I’ll be at camp, so that’s impossible. I stop listening and count to ten in my head, tell myself that getting a suspension and bad grades in one class isn’t the end of the world. One, two, three, four…“Self-talk,” it’s called. My doctor tells me to do it whenever I get angry or upset, so I can control it before it starts boiling and building inside me like lava in a volcano. Breathe in, breathe out.
“We’d better go,” Dad says. He’s calm now, his anger having vanished as quickly as it arrived. Finsecker shuffles into the restaurant.
When we get in the car, I finally talk. “Finsecker hates me. If schools really cared about bullies, they’d get rid of half the teachers.”
Mom twists
from the front seat and takes a long look at me. “You should have told us. I’m upset at you for lying, more than anything. How can we ever trust you again?” She turns around to face the front. “I’m disappointed in you.” Dad nods.
That hurts so much more than if they had yelled at me. My parents will never understand. I start crying all over again.
“We can get our deposit back from that camp, right?” Dad asks Mom.
“What?! No!” I shout.
“I think so,” Mom answers softly, as if I haven’t yelled. “I’ll call them tomorrow.”
NO! “You promised I could go!” I say. “You promised! You can’t do this!”
“You did this to yourself, Abby,” Dad says. “You’re going to summer school.”
“No! You can’t!”
But I know they can, and will. I beg, plead. Drew takes my side. It doesn’t change their minds. I’m not going to Star Lake anymore.
Just like that.
When we get home, I slam my bedroom door, call Caitlin, and tell her what happened.
“I can’t believe Finsecker was at the same restaurant. You have, like, the worst luck ever,” she says.
“I’m not going to camp now. Summer school. It’s so unfair.”
“I didn’t know they even had school in the summer. I mean, I’ve heard of taking make-up classes online, but forcing you to go to school over vacation? What a rip-off. They are stealing your youth, Abs. Seriously.”
“It’s all Finsecker’s fault!”
“You know what would make you feel better? Revenge.”
“Revenge? How?”
“I don’t know. But I do know where he lives. Near Taylor, behind the mall. She told me he waters his yard with a hose. Not sprinklers. A hose. Psycho.”
“What?”
“I’m telling you, you should get revenge. Don’t get mad, get even.”
It sounds like she’s reading lines from a play. She doesn’t understand that this is real, and it’s happening to me. I hang up, then crawl into bed. Tears and snot ooze onto my pillow.
My phone beeps.
Hey Abby, Brett.
A text from Brett! He’s never texted me before.
Brett: Have U started packing ur duffel 4 camp? I’m sneaking candy in bottom of tissue box how bout u? R u packing gum/candy?
My duffel has been packed for a month, and yes, I packed Juicy Fruit gum in an empty shampoo bottle. Now I’ll have to unpack everything, because I’m stuck here. I read his text again and again.
I can’t go to Star Lake.
The more I think about it, the angrier I get. I keep going over everything that happened today, how Finsecker made fun of me, how he said something to me about horse manure, how kids whispered “sorry” when I walked out, trying not to cry. My anger builds faster and faster, like a car gaining speed down a steep hill. It twists and turns and spirals down my chest and crashes into my stomach. The next thing I know, I’m tossing my books and papers off my desk. Then I accidentally trip over my duffel bag, which makes me even madder, so I unzip it and throw everything I touch: clothes, sneakers, and flip-flops. I yell every bad word I know. I’m sure my parents can hear it all, but they still don’t come in.
Now I’m pacing, my fists clenching and unclenching.
One…two…three. Calm down, Abby. Breathe. Four…five…six…
I HATE Finsecker! I want to put my fist through the wall, or break something. I throw my cell phone. Hard. It hits the wall with a thump, leaving a mark. I pick it up. The glass is cracked.
Shattered. Just like how I feel inside. The glass costs sixty-eight dollars to fix. I know the price because I’ve already dropped my phone and broken the screen three times. I have no birthday money left to pay for it. I’m so stupid.
The door flies open. Mom rushes in with Dad right behind her. “Abby! What was that noise?”
“For Pete’s sake, this room looks like a tornado hit it.”
My voice cracks. “I threw my phone.”
“You broke the glass on your phone again?” Mom asks. Her lips disappear into a thin line. “You need to clean up this mess.” Her voice is quiet but intense. She leaves.
Dad stays in the doorway. “You and I, we’re going to have a talk later, buddy.” After the door closes behind him, I hear Dad say to Mom, “She’s too emotional to have a rational conversation right now.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” she answers.
“What are we going to do about it?”
Their voices fade away, and I can’t hear the rest. I hate it when they talk about me like that, like they’re detectives and I’m a case to be solved.
The crack in my phone looks like a jagged mouth laughing at me. How did this happen? How was everything so normal just a few hours ago, and now I’m flunking English, getting suspended, and going to summer school?
I pace back and forth, back and forth.
The urge to throw, break, or kick is still there. Mom and Dad aren’t even trying to see my point of view. Not even Caitlin understands the way I feel.
Caitlin. Don’t get mad, get even.
I have an idea.
So what if I get caught? What will my parents do? The worst has already happened.
Three thoughts keep running through my brain, loudly:
IT’S NOT FAIR.
HE DESERVES IT.
I HAVE NOTHING TO LOSE.
I tiptoe downstairs.
“All you had to do was go online and check her grades,” Dad says from inside his study.
“Why didn’t you check?” Mom snaps.
I’ll be back in an hour. They won’t notice I’m gone.
It’s so easy. I slip into the garage, get on my bike, and head out the side door. Caitlin and I meet up on the bike path. She has markers in her string bag, I have toilet paper in mine.
It gives me the heebie-jeebies, riding my bike at night, brushing past dragonflies while tree branches stretch out like long, bony arms. I’m going so fast my hair flaps behind me like a flag. “Slow down!” Caitlin calls. But I pedal like a speeding train, in time with my silent chant: HedeservesitHedeservesitHedeservesit.
Finsecker’s neighborhood isn’t far. We use the navigation app on Caitlin’s phone and find his house, his car. Easy. No one outside. We work quickly.
First, we throw toilet paper into his trees, watching the long white strips stream down from the branches. After that we decorate his car. I draw caricatures of Finsecker’s craggy face on one door while Caitlin draws devils on the other. I wonder if he’ll have time to get to the car wash before school starts in the morning, or if he’ll be late tomorrow.
“We have a problem,” Caitlin whispers.
“What?” I loud-whisper back, adding hairy ears to my picture.
Caitlin walks to the street, dips the bottom of her T-shirt in a puddle, comes back to the car, and rubs the wet corner of her T-shirt on her drawing. “Look. It won’t come off.” She rubs harder. She sounds nervous. “I wanted to take off the devil horns, but they won’t even fade.”
“So cross them out.”
“You don’t understand.” She picks up the marker and turns it slowly, reading the fine print. “Oh. My. God.” She hands it to me. “Look!”
I read it. WARNING! Permanent ink. For window use only. Not for use on vehicle body.
Our artwork is permanent. As in never coming off.
I can’t think. I stare at Caitlin, my mouth in the same O shape of horror as hers.
“What are we gonna do?” Caitlin asks me.
“How should I know?” I ask, panic rising. “This was all your idea.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Yes, it was!”
She puts her hand over my mouth. “Shhhh!”
I peel her hand off. “You said I should get revenge on Finsecker! You got the markers!”
“You called me to come out here!”
Bright headlights flood our masterpiece with light. The Neighborhood Watch car.
“O
h, no,” moans Caitlin.
Two men get out. My heart thumps and bangs like loose change clanging in a clothes dryer. The marker falls out of my trembling fingers and rolls onto the grass.
Mr. Finsecker comes out in a plaid bathrobe and slippers. He looks different than at school: frail, old. Small. For a split second, I think it’s Grandpa.
But it’s Finsecker, all right.
He’s standing in his driveway.
Which is across the street from the one we are standing in.
Meaning we aren’t at his house.
Meaning the car we just trashed isn’t his.
Meaning we are in deep, serious doody.
At the precise second this realization hits me, we’re suddenly bathed in outdoor lights, and a hairy man in white underpants runs onto the driveway—the one we are standing on—waving a baseball bat.
“What did you kids do to my car?!” he screams. He steps closer, and it’s clear he sees exactly what we’ve done to his car, because he makes this big gasping noise, and then yells: “ARE YOU CRAZY? YOU KIDS ARE GOING TO PAY FOR THIS! DO YOU HEAR ME?” He points his bat at the Neighborhood Watch men. “CALL THE COPS! I’M PRESSING CHARGES!”
Caitlin chooses this moment to throw up.
The squad car shows up almost instantly, lights flashing. Caitlin is sobbing. I’m shaking, but I manage to answer the officers’ questions, at least until my parents drive up. Finsecker called them. I burst into tears as soon as I see their faces.
I’ve never been in trouble like this before.
Suddenly, I don’t care about not going to camp anymore.
I’m more concerned about not getting arrested.
This is the worst thing I’ve ever done. I went too far, and there is no way out.
All the drama has left me exhausted. The police and Dad talked Underwear Bat Man out of pressing charges. Hello, we’re twelve. We messed up his Ford Fiesta. We didn’t murder anybody.
Instead of getting arrested, Caitlin and I have to pay $2,000 for a new paint job. Dad says I’ll have to work at his store to pay him back. I also have to start my eighth-grade community service hours early by volunteering at Millennium Lakes Home for the Aged. It turns out Underwear Bat Man, also known as Mr. Aldo Meyers, is on the board there.
This Is Not the Abby Show Page 3
